Hatred
by Jayne Foyer
Summary: Val is gone, and Peter takes a moment to think about who he really hates. But he's not going to cry. That's no use. There's nothing to cry over, is there?


Peter Wiggin lay on his bed, his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

He shifted onto his side. He didn't even register the fact that his mind felt completely blank, a pure white slate as opposed to the rush and collision of thoughts and opinions and ideas and identities that usually ran circles around his head.

He had an itch on his cheek, and it was only when he reached up to scratch his skin and his hand pulled away wet that he realized he was crying. He rolled his eyes. What a stupid thing to cry over. Not like Val was up there, crying for him. No, she was with Ender, perfect little Ender. Goddamn, Peter hated Ender. The little bugger got everything that Peter didn't. Battle School. The adoration of his family. Notoriety, fame. And now Valentine.

But some part of him deep inside knew that he didn't hate Ender. No. He loved Ender. He always had; he remembered the way his mouth used to get away from him, the way he used to say things because envy ate him alive, and then at night he would wonder why he said all those words, and then he would walk over and stand over Ender's sleeping body and he would cry. It would have been so easy to put a pillow over the little genius's face right then and there and have everything done with, but he never did that. Not that it hadn't crossed his mind. But he had resisted the urge. He had cried instead. And he had said the things he should have told Ender to his face before that stupid little boy left.

And now look where he was.

All alone.

Peter had always been smarter than everybody else, and that meant no one was worth his time. Not the eemos at school, not those pathetic, empty-headed human beings who claimed to be his parents, no one. Except for maybe Valentine. She had seen the danger of Ender coming home first. She had seen the danger that Peter posed to the world. Maybe that made her the smartest person Peter had ever met, because everyone else genuinely loved him. What fools. One day he was going to rule over them all, like some sort of absurd king of a brave new world.

_Hah_. It was laughable.

Peter would never rule over anything.

Peter would never _be_ anything.

It was funny how he could be so cocky and sure about his future one week, and the next he could be falling apart like this. This random bout of debilitating self-loathing was not something that he was used to, and it was tearing him apart.

Well. It wasn't exactly random. Val left. That's what was killing him. Val was gone. Forever. What will be years for me will be mere weeks for her. She will still be a child after I am all grown up. She will still be a child and that hate and disdain will be fresh in her mind when I die. If I don't die before she reaches her destination.

Peter forced himself to keep his sobs silent. How humiliating would it be, if his mother came in and sat on his bed, stroking his hair softly, whispering words of comfort?

Not that she would ever do that. Or perhaps she would, because for some reason she still thought he was so much of a child. He had done far too good of a job in hiding his true identity. He had woven a web so entangled with lies and pretend and empty words that he was an entire different person with his parents. He had no idea who they were. He had chosen to cut himself off from them the moment he realized which son they loved more.

Ender. Ender. Ender Ender Ender it always came back to Ender.

Sometimes, when his parents were out of the house, Peter said the name out loud. "Ender. Andrew. Ender Wiggin. Andrew Wiggin."

Who was this name? Peter didn't know. Peter didn't know anything about the boy whom he shared so much of his DNA with. He knew what the Battle School reports said, oh yes, and he certainly knew everything that had happened at the court martial. He had watched the vids. He had been appalled, despite himself. Ender always killed with such a subtle grace, it was like something happened and then suddenly the other boy wouldn't move. It never seemed like he had murdered. But murdered he had, and nobody can get away with that scot-free.

Peter remembered several years ago, he had found a dying squirrel in the forest behind the house. He remembered very clearly what he had done to it. The thought made him ill; it made him want to throw up. He had compounded all his anger onto this single animal, and he had relished at the noises it made, at how it felt to _hurt_ something, to cause pain, to _kill _something.

Peter wondered if Ender had ever enjoyed that feeling. Peter doubted it. No matter how closely they were related by blood, they were nothing alike.

He found himself wishing that he had explained himself to Valentine before she had left. There was so much left unsaid. There was so much that could have tried to repair all the things he had done to her. He had been a rude, insufferable, terrifying little prick for as long as he could remember. Would one gesture of kindness have been too much to ask?

Peter sighed angrily and wanted to shout curse words at himself, but his parents were home and he couldn't do that with them there.

So instead he lay on his bed not slitting his wrists, tears trailing down his face, dampening the pillow below his head.

He didn't know who he hated more.

Ender, for taking everything away from him.

Val, for leaving him all alone.

Or himself, for causing this all in the first place.

Ender never would have been commissioned by the IF if Peter hadn't been so damn smart.

And it was no more use lying to himself. He certainly knew who deserved his hate the most, so he sat there, basking in his own self-hatred, pitying himself.

Oh, what a terrible life. What a terrible, lonely life.

And then he got out of bed and, his eyes still blurry from the tears, he started on his next essay, because even if his life was always terrible and lonely that didn't mean he couldn't be productive, too.

_How pathetic_, he expected Valentine to say. Only Val was gone.

So he said it. "How pathetic," he said, and he got back to work, writing a mental note to sleep with the window open that night and hope someone had the good sense to smother him in his sleep.

* * *

Peter Wiggin. If I could just. You are the perfect character. You are honestly the best example of a perfect rounded, dynamic character ever to exist. I love you.

Peter Wiggin is honestly my favorite character from anything _ever._


End file.
